“What do you mean?” Fleur frowned, wondering why he had said nothing to her about it when he’d known she was the Barclay in residence.
Agitation quickened her pulse.
“He’s interested in buying it. I think he hopes we’ll sell directly to him without putting it on the market, but I think we should at least wait and see what kind of interest we get first.” Lark dug in her bag and came up with a set of keys. “But I need to get to an appointment with a client’s school counselor. Message me if you need help with Gran’s service.”
“I will. And thank you.” Fleur nodded absently, still thinking about Drake approaching her sister. She disconnected the call, her tablet going dark before she left the kitchen to wander into the overgrown backyard.
Of course Drake would go behind her back to talk to Lark. But at least the anger chased away the melancholy she’d been feeling. Drake’s underhanded tactics let her channel grief and mourning into frustrated outrage.
The rat bastard.
She kept to the flagstone path to avoid tall weeds around the small courtyard where Gran had surrounded a birdbath with perennials, thinking about the awkward conversation she’d had with Drake in the Cowboy Kitchen parking lot. It made a new kind of sense now. She’d been confused that he followed her outside and took the initiative to offer his condolences.
Hell, he’d offered hera job.
But all that time he’d simply been gauging her potential willingness to sell him her grandmother’s land.
Bending to right the birdbath that had toppled sideways into the lavender and salvia, Fleur vowed not to accept any offer her nemesis made for Crooked Elm. He couldn’t just avoid her because he’d made an enemy out of her.
He’d always thought the worst of her, even before the fiasco of her engagement to his brother. Those years when she’d been travelling to pageants in an effort to win the scholarship prizes, Drake had always been close by to chastise her about her outfits, about the company she kept, about the choices she’d made, nominating himself as a reluctant protector since they were both from the same town. But she hadn’t asked for his help. And no matter how well-meaning it might have been at one time, it always came off as judgy. Superior.
But she never could have predicted the level of animosity he’d aimed her way once she got engaged to his brother. He’d been determined to convince her to end things with Colin, and she’d been so upset about how her motives had been misperceived that she’d done exactly that.
Of course, by that time, she’d miscarried, eliminating the secret reason for the engagement in the first place. Under the circumstances, she hadn’t had the emotional resources to stand up to Drake and tell him exactly what she thought of his interference, so she’d simply given Colin back his ring.
Setting him free from a commitment he’d only made to her for the baby’s sake. But she’d underestimated how devastated she would be—emotionally, physically and mentally—in the aftermath. She’d regretted sending Colin away when she’d needed someone to grieve with her.
But her anger had never been directed toward him, even though he hadn’t looked back once he’d left town. No. Her animosity had always been reserved for the man who’d told her she had no business marrying his brother in the first place.
Now, suddenly, Drake needed a favor from her. Well she wouldn’t be swayed by his offering her a much-needed paycheck, or pretending to have cared about her grandmother.
Fleur brushed some dirt away from the design molded inside the bowl of the birdbath. Her fingers traced the lines of a sun with a smiling face. She needed to see the Crooked Elm house and grounds shine again even though she couldn’t afford to keep the lands. She didn’t have money to invest in the work, but she had time and sweat equity. Somehow, she’d find a job to pay her bills.
And just maybe, in the process, she’d figure out a way to heal her broken family, too.
But one thing was certain. She was done needing anything an Alexander man had to offer, ever again.
The scent of lilies and roses hanging thick in the air, Drake noted that the lack of receiving line following Antonia Barclay’s memorial spoke volumes about the broken family dynamic.
His gaze swept over the crowd inside the rented hall behind the biggest church in Catamount, seeking the various Barclay sisters since they hadn’t even sat together during the memorial. Now that the formal part of the service had finished, the women had dispersed to the opposite corners of the building as they prepared for a meal. And maybe, for his purposes, it was just as well that the siblings didn’t have strong family bonds. He wasn’t sure how Fleur would feel about him approaching Lark regarding the sale of Crooked Elm. But after the way she’d refused his job offer and reminded him she wouldn’t ever trust him again, he’d figured he’d have a better chance of Lark hearing him out.
Too bad she’d seemed distracted when he’d phoned her the week before, telling him she had no plans to return to Catamount beyond the day of the memorial. Which meant this might be his only chance to reach out to the sisters in person.
He tugged his Stetson off his head before heading toward the buffet tables where he’d spied the glint of Fleur’s distinctive copper-colored hair a moment before. It didn’t make sense that his boots were walking in her direction when they didn’t get along. Maybe his conscience hadn’t rested easy after their last conversation. There was no love lost between them, but he knew the service had to have been difficult for her. She’d spoken only briefly, her words steady and well chosen, but the dark shadows under her eyes told the toll it had taken.
“Excuse me.”
Her voice sounded suddenly behind him, and he turned to see Fleur. He hated the way his blood heated and pulse raced around her, but couldn’t pull his gaze away. She wore a simple gray dress dotted with white flowers, understated but not somber. The hem fell just above her knees, and despite the occasion, he might have still been momentarily distracted by her legs if she hadn’t been juggling two large trays. The salvers were heaped with a variety of the Spanish tapas that he recalled Antonia Barclay bringing to community potluck events—savorycroquetas, some kind of fried potato dish, chorizo and cheeses.
“Whoa. Let me give you a hand.” He reached for one of the trays to help, his fingers brushing hers briefly. The contact zinged through him while he turned back to make more room for the food on the closest buffet table. “Shouldn’t the catering staff be giving you a hand with this?”
He settled the food between a chafing dish of skewers threaded with chicken and red peppers, and a warming tray full of something that looked like bruschetta, but he was guessing had a Spanish flair. Even the musician in the far corner of the hall played Spanish classical guitar, the whole event themed to showcase Antonia’s heritage.
“I must have left my staff in Texas,” Fleur snapped while she slid her platter into place near a carafe of red wine. “Along with my job. So I guess I’ll just power through on my own.”
Confused, Drake stared at all the dishes piled on the buffet tables. There was enough to feed the entire town, the scents of grilled meats and spices wafting through the building while more guests filled the room. The conversation level had increased in volume since the end of the memorial.
“Then who provided all the food?” He couldn’t resist swiping one of thecroquetasfrom the table, a dish he recalled with fondness.